


The Barley Fields

by thisaestus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisaestus/pseuds/thisaestus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Isobel Ross marries a Muggle and Minerva McGonagall almost does the same</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Barley Fields

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on JKR's Pottermore canon for Minerva McGonagall. Written for nevrafire for the 2013 HP Beholder fest.

The Rosses had a comfortable habit of sorting Ravenclaw and were known for all kinds of strange notions, which is probably how her parents had come about the odd social practice of looking upon the Muggles tolerantly, even sometimes fondly. They gained a sort of savage satisfaction out of mixing with the villagers, sharing complaints about the price of butter or exchanging remarks about the weather and escaping with their secret intact. Isobel herself had the exotic distinction of having attended a Muggle primary school until her Hogwarts letter came, although this was something she didn’t advertise in the dormitory.

During holidays, it was a matter of course that she should amuse herself by visiting with her old playmates, and she took great delight at inventing stories about the boarding school everyone supposed she attended in England. Back at Hogwarts, however, she thrilled at the secret of her home life so close among the Muggles. A dull History of Magic lesson was bearable while remembering the shrieks of her friends playing on the moor, the curious static pictures of her old schoolbooks. Her girlhood was thus spent in rich fantasy and vivid imaginings no one around her could have even suspected.

Increasingly she returned home during school hols to find the girls she had grown up with were paired off with this or that lad, but Isobel certainly never expected to find herself in such a predicament. It was so fully understood that she would marry a wizard that everyone failed to realize the danger presented by the fiery blue eyes of a certain Muggle boy who sometimes accompanied her home down the lane at dusk. At first, it was merely a continuation of the game she had always played with herself. It was thrilling to repeat the old stories of her boarding school and watch him hang onto her words, hungrily devouring each new bit of information about her. That first summer, it was laughable to leave him behind, and no, he could not write her because the gentle young ladies at her school were not permitted to fraternize with young men. Her last year at Hogwarts rushed by all too quickly, and she practically forgot him.

When she returned that summer, things were different. Some of the girls she’d known her whole life had married and could no longer spend carefree afternoons adventuring across the moor. She herself would soon be leaving to apprentice for her charm work. Almost by default she consented to spending more time with him. With Robert. Not just a Muggle, _Robert_. 

Having always viewed her Muggle friends as merely something to entertain herself with, she was shocked to discover that they could be as passionate about things as people with magic. She was fascinated by Robert’s devotion to religion. Why, any sixth year could turn water into at least a weak vinegar, and she could name at least four different charms that could make people appear to walk on water. She alone of the girls in her village knew the exhilaration of flight, of hearing a stadium of schoolmates shriek themselves raw in delight and dismay while the fickle snitch teased, the pure joy of a perfect charm and the congratulations on a job well done. But with the knowledge of magic thrumming from her very fingertips and thus mastered, there was something desperately alluring about Robert’s very ordinariness. His very Muggleness became a mystery to be solved.

When he tentatively mentioned marriage, she flung her arms around his neck and suggested they elope. His sense of honor was too grand for him to agree, but she knew there would be no chance of this adventure if he did the proper thing and asked her father for her hand. She had learned a few things, and told him her family was Catholic, but they would surely come around once they were wed. He swallowed, set his jaw, and nodded.

They spent their honeymoon in a small cottage overlooking the sea, and she learned there was more than one kind of magic that could be worked up under her skin. When they returned to the village, she ran laughing and carefree up the walk to her home, throwing open the gate and bouncing onto the step. Robert walked more soberly behind her, nervous but determined to show her parents he could be a good provider. The door flung open, and the frantic worry on her parents’ faces morphed into something altogether different. They stared silently at each other for a moment, and then, pale and riven with anger, her father slammed the door. She felt the tingle of the wards going up, and knew that once she left the gate, she could never return.

It wasn’t long before the enormity of what she had done was upon her. Incredibly, Robert found a position as a minister in Caithness, and they were given the use of the manse. She knew hundreds of charms and spells that could set a household to rights in no time, clever little things that could instantly remove the tiniest wrinkle from linen or expel any dirt from the crevice of a floorboard, but she dared not use magic here, where it would be so easily detected in this place among none of her kind. Bereft of her wand, she struggled initially to complete simple chores. Robert said nothing, but helped her until she became adept.

It soon became a game again, this success and subterfuge at Muggle life, only this time it was for keeps.

 

**********

She was born on October 4 and was to have been called Ailis. Sweet, bonnie, Ailis. Maybe everything would have been different, simpler, if she had. But when Isobel looked into her face, at the thatch of dark hair sprinkled across her crown, she blurted out _Minerva_. It was the name of her great-grandmother, a grand and great and fascinating lady, but most importantly, she had been brilliant and _powerful_. 

Robert was at a loss when the villagers frowned and wondered why they had picked such a . . . _unique_ name. When Isobel had somewhat recovered and was receiving visitors, she touched a handkerchief to an imaginary tear and remembered her old headmistress Minerva, under whose benefaction she had attended boarding school and received such a wonderful education. And there were no more mutterings. 

Minerva grew quickly into a plump, happy infant. The villagers were thrilled to have a pretty young minister’s wife and a baby at the manse. But although she should have been happy, Isobel was in despair. The strangest things kept happening. She had caught Thomas, the mouser, perched on the side of the cradle, and froze in terror, all the old superstitions of cats sucking babies’ breath evident before her. She darted forward, yelling, but instead of being startled, Tom looked at her dismissively, then turned his stare back to Minerva. Strangely, the little girl was staring back intently. She shuddered, then grabbed Tom by the scruff of his neck and tossed him out into the night. She couldn’t figure out how, but he kept getting back in. Sometimes he would be sitting in front of the cradle, almost protectively, but once or twice she had caught him curled up at Minerva’s feet while she gurgled happily.

She didn’t realize what was actually happening until embarrassingly late. She would find Minerva chewing on toys she was sure had put away. Tom was rarely apart from her, yet the mice seemed almost nonexistent. But it wasn’t until Robert was away that everything fell into place. She had just put the baby down for a nap when she heard the loud whine of the bagpipes. She whirled around to chastise her husband for playing during naptime when she realized he was having tea in the village. She tiptoed toward the source of the sound and stared, jaw-dropped, for a full minute while Minerva giggled at the bagpipes that were playing themselves. Tom sat smugly nearby.

No, no, no. She stalked across the room and grabbed the bagpipes, hurling them across the room. “This isn’t happening!” she shrieked, startling the baby, who began to wail. They cried together for the better part of an hour, Minerva asleep and she with her face carefully washed by the time Robert returned.

Concealing Minerva’s magic became the worst game Isobel had ever played. Toys delivering themselves to the baby were one thing, but a ghostly bagpiper was something else entirely. She began to take Minerva on long, long walks, hoping that she would spend her magic away from home so Robert wouldn’t see. She became withdrawn, jumpy, startling easily. Robert’s tentative warm hand on her hip under the covers saw her wracked with sobs.

She slept when Minerva slept, but badly, wondering if it were possible for her to have spontaneous magic in her sleep. The doctor showed up, spoke quietly in Robert’s ear. It seemed this happened sometimes, after a birth. One night, when she had fallen asleep on the floor of the baby’s room, Tom’s green eyes glittering watchfully, Robert entered the room. He knelt beside her, gathered her in his arms and held her quietly. She began to cry, and he pleaded with her to tell him what was wrong. Everything came tumbling out—the boarding school, the magic, Minerva. As he stared in shock, she produced her wand and explained about the statute of secrecy. He trembled—in fear? anger? betrayal? —and walked out of the room. She heard the door shut and cried herself to sleep on the floor, Minerva and the cat watching silently.

He reappeared the next morning, and their peace was shaky, but quiet. She found it difficult to meet his eyes. That night, however, as she sat in a chair next to Minerva’s cradle, he appeared next to her and took her hand.

**********

When the boys came, they were given solid names. No Cassius or Septimus or Hyperion for the McGonagall lads. For some time, it seemed to have worked. But soon enough the young Robert and Malcolm each proved that the magic had bred true, too strong to be diluted by their father’s Muggle blood. Minerva was a serious, strong-willed girl, and a great help with the boys. When they were little, there were often displays of magic that stopped Isobel’s breath momentarily, but Minerva was a great girl for brushing off any odd occurrences in front of outsiders and creating some plausible explanation.

When the letter from Hogwarts came, she trailed her fingers over the parchment in wonder, tears filling her eyes. She was so happy for her little girl, of course she was! But it was like labor pains almost, the pang of loss and longing the beautiful, thick ink and the Hogwarts crest sparked in her. Minerva’s fierce joy and triumph was both devastating and freeing to see, and she clutched her little girl and rocked her back and forth in tears.

The trip to Hogsmeade for supplies was overwhelming, and the thought of returning to Caithness, barren of magic, was enough to make her want to curl up in a ball. Robert and Malcolm were insufferable with jealousy and Minerva insufferable with smugness, but suddenly, for a short time, there was magic in the house. There was the Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, and black school robes to run one’s finger over when no one was looking, and a fir wand to puzzle over (when all the wands she had ever known in the family had been cheerful like willow or maple). Too soon, Minerva was gone, with all the evidence of magic with her.

Then the first letter arrived, and she was a Gryffindor, of course she was, with her father’s stubbornness and fire (although it seemed the Ravenclaw strain had still held strong in this generation, and the hat had had quite a time deciding). And then the next letter came, a school report explaining her academic success and talent. Each new letter was a revelation, something shiny unearthed from the dust under which she had concealed her former life. Minerva took it upon herself to conquer gravity, and so there was the need for a broom, and Quidditch, and Minerva was astonished to learn that her fuddy old mother had once captained an entire team. There were some things (especially the Transfiguration) Isobel was quite rusty at, but plenty during the holidays to discuss and debate when she was home. There were the OWL scores, a prefecture, a letter from Professor Albus Dumbledore, detailing with delight (and did she detect a certain amount of wonder?) the impressive skill and might he take Minerva under his personal tutelage? Entreatments to watch out for her brothers and make sure they stayed out of trouble. A Head Girl badge, prestigious awards. The first time she turned into a cat, Isobel burst into tears of pride and amazement and in the next breath admonished her to never show her father. Minerva rolled her eyes. And all too soon, it was over.

Prospects had been many for Minerva, but she had finally settled on a position with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Instead of moving immediately to London, she had been prevailed upon to spend one last summer before adulthood with the family.

On a particularly hot day, she answered a knock at the door, expecting the elderly spinsters from down the lane, who had a longstanding quilting date with her mother. She was completely unprepared for the beautiful young man who stood before her, and it was quite evident he did not expect her either. They stared at each other for a long moment, and he finally held out a basket of berries his father had sent to hers. She watched him depart, and mused over him the rest of the night.

She quickly learned his name was Dougal McGregor, and he appeared the very next day to inform her of such. Minerva had never blushed a day in her life, but when he gaily apologized for his manners the previous day and explained that seeing such beauty unexpectedly had robbed him of her speech, she was certain there must be a pinkness in her cheeks. He insisted she visit him on his father’s farm to fetch some fresh cream that he had forgotten to bring. She rolled her eyes at him, but went with him anyway.  
The boys at Hogwarts had mostly been intimidated by her intelligence and achievements. Dougal was so vibrant that she found herself responding to his friendly speech with dry little quips of her own, and they shared much laughter. He took his time showing her about the farm, and she couldn’t help comparing this sturdy farm boy to the robed boys she’d known at school. Those boys could fire a hex at 10 meters or name a dozen uses of moonstone in potions without blinking an eye, but as she watched Dougal give a friendly slap to the rump of a horse, she saw that there was an intelligence in him, too. No one at Hogwarts could strip a cow of milk, or harvest honey from bees, or grow a crop of wheat.

They saw each other nearly every day. Her father seemed quite happy, but her mother was strangely silent. This was madness, surely. She would be leaving soon and Dougal certainly couldn’t come with her. But there was no reason not to enjoy what time they did have together. At dusk, she spied him standing in a freshly plowed field across the way. She picked a path through the barley, fingers trailing along the golden heads of grain, unconscious of the picture she made with her long, dark hair as she walked.

When she reached him, his face lit up in happiness and she smiled in return. She felt a thrill as he lifted her hand and gently kissed it. He did not release her hand, however, and stared at her intently. Suddenly, he dropped to the ground, knelt upon one knee, and asked if she would honor him by becoming his wife. Speechless, she stared at him for a moment, and then tugged him into standing.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, and he whooped and picked her up and spun them around until they were both dizzy. He kissed her gently, and then with increasing fire, and pulled away when she was breathless. Smiling happily, he took led her home, holding her hand.

Minerva drifted to her bedroom with a dreamy smile on her face, for once in her life completely unobservant and missing the sharp look of dismay that crossed her mother’s face. She lay upon her bed in the dark, deliriously happy as she imagined her future with Dougal. But doubt soon crept in to mar and blacken her joy. Marrying Dougal would mean she could not take her job at the MLE. She could not take any of the offers she’d been presented. She would never be able to perform magic around the house, never transfigure anything again. She and Dougal would have beautiful, dark-haired babies, and she would live in hope and fear that they would inherit her magic. She remembered painfully her childhood, the envy and happiness of her mother as she went to Hogwarts, the fear that their magic might be accidentally discovered and ruin all of their lives.

She wept bitterly, and in the morning arose quietly to cross the barley once more.


End file.
